Like A Candle In The Wind
by taschiewitch
Summary: Dean Winchester has been stuck in Hell, literally. With Alistair torturing him ceaselessly, Dean has difficulty keeping track of time, not to mention his sanity. So when a man appears, claiming to be an Angel of the Lord, is he hallucinating? Or have his half-assed prayers finally been answered? Then there is the question as to why?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters are mine, some events will go along with the original story line, but if things happen that you don't recognize, thats all me.

This story is canon up to the end of season 3 of Supernatural, and becomes AU with some things following the original storyline, some things embellished, and a lot of things added and changed to suit my story.

This is my first Fanfic, so be kind :)


	2. Chapter 2

**01 - Drag Me From Hell**

Hell.

It burned. Not like fire burns, but the slow creep of frostbite you only notice when it's already searing. The kind that's just below your skin and nothing can relieve the pain.

Sometimes it waned, kindling false hope that it's over, before returning sevenfold. He learned quickly not to trust the false relief.

But nothing compared to Alistair.

He made every new cut feel like a million hot needles, each broken bone a volcano. And when it seemed like Dean's soul was finally torn beyond recognition, he would leave him to heal. And then he would start all over again.

Dean's sense of time became unreliable. A second became a year became a decade. The only anchor to whatever sanity he had left was Sammy.

Hopefully Lilith messed up. Hopefully the hellhounds left everyone else alone. If anyone deserved to get out of there alive it was Sam. Part of him wondered if Ruby made it out okay, but he wont shed any tears if she got ganked by Lilith.

Dean had to figure out a way to keep the demons off Sammy's back, even if it's from this side of Hell's Gate. As long as Alistair kept on coming back, he hadn't broken him yet. At least this was better than becoming yet another wretched soul or, worse yet, a soul-less demon. Dean would take eternity of torture over becoming the monster he has hunted for so long any time.

His surroundings were dark, with just enough of an eerie glow to illuminate the blood-stained leather straps binding Dean to the dentist-like chair, and the arsenal of torture instruments he could just make out if he had the strength to turn his head an inch to the right. Alistair never bothered to clean the blood from his "artist's tools," as he liked to call them.

He was almost healed up again. Not much longer until Alistair would return with a new, genius way to make me scream until my vocal chords bleed. He wouldn't stop until he agreed to become his apprentice. To do his twisted work for him. And now Dean was running out of creative denials.

"Hello, Dean."

Oh, how he hated that voice. A sound like a too tightly wound violin mixed in with sandpaper on tree bark.

"I'm afraid I'm not ready for our playdate yet, Al, still gotta get all prettied up." Not his best remark, but he was early. Normally he would wait until Dean was back to 100%. Something was up.

Alistair looked at Dean for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to tell him why he was early. His lips twisted into a malicious grin.

"I believe I went a bit overboard with your father. He's just so good at wearing down my patience. Must be a Winchester thing." He hovered his hand over his instruments, pausing over a rather primitive flaying knife. He picks it up and examines it in the dim lighting, nodding absently.

"Must be my lucky day," Dean gritted out between his teeth. The wounds from last time were still painfully present. "So why don't you stop playing coy and get to the good stuff?"

"Patience is a virtue, you know. Not that it matters down here." The demon stepped up to him and adjusted the contraption he was strapped to. Satisfied, he shot Dean a sickening grin the Hunter was already too familiar with.

He didn't even have time to prepare, the thin knife was already slicing into his bare ribs.

Dean clenched teeth were holding back my scream, but he knew it was useless to even try to stay silent. Each twitch of Alistair's hand on the knife triggered another strangled cry of pain.

Then, there was blinding light. He didn't understand. Did Alistair figure out a new torture? It's been ages since he brought anything new to the job.

There was a ringing in his ears so profound, any control Dean had on his screams vanished. But his screams were joined by unfamiliar ones.

The light receded, but was still so potent against the shadows of the room. And he saw him. He was beautiful. Majestic. Hell, Dean didn't even have a coherent thought to describe him. He was also a bit preoccupied with the fact that the newcomer was wearing a trench coat and holding Alistair by the throat.

Was Dean hallucinating? Did he finally break? His ragged breath whistled through his teeth as he watched his captor be flung to the corner. Dean didn't get it. He was officially mental.

The stranger turned to face him slowly, as if reluctant to see what he had stumbled upon. Dean's eyes widened as he was met with the full effect of those eyes. The bluest blue, the colour of the hot summer sky, and the first real colour he had seen since arriving in Hell.

"Dean Winchester."

It wasn't a question. The words reverberated through his core, and he felt panic. He needed to answer. If he didn't, the beautiful stranger would leave and Dean would still be stuck here. No.

"Y-yes." Dean's voice shook, and his eyes were wide. "Who are you?"

Instead of answering, the man hurried up to Dean, pulling a blade from the inside of his coat. He didn't want to, but Dean flinched automatically. Hell will do that to a person. But Dean knew he was safe with him. Everything was going to be alright.

With deft cuts, the stranger sliced through the thick leather. Without their support, Dean slid down, caught by his liberator just before his knees hit the ground. He hated his weakness, but knew nothing could be done about it.

The strange man helped Dean to stand up, and methodically removed the knife from his ribs. He wavered, but remained upright. A small victory, but a triumph none the less.

"My name is Castiel, and I am an Angel of the Lord." He handed Dean the knife, as a peace offering or as a weapon to defend himself with, should he need to. Damn, did it feel good to hold a knife again. To have power.

As Dean was revelling in this new development, movement caught his eye. Eternity down here didn't diminish his Hunter instincts; if anything, they were on high-alert. Good thing, too, because it turned out to be Alistair moving to attack Castiel.

He didn't think. He shoved the Angel aside - if he really was an Angel - and propelled Alistair onto the torture chair with strength he later chalked up to vengeance, rage, and adrenaline. In the same motion he sunk the knife into Alistair's stomach. Dean was blind with rage.

There was nothing but stab. Slice. Cut. Stab. Over and over and over until a voice cut through the fog and screaming and Dean felt strong hands on his shoulders pulling him back.

"Dean. DEAN! You must stop."

But it was already too late. His hands were stained red, a perverse mimicry of Alistair's hands after too many days of torturing Dean. Castiel gazed at him with something that may have passed for pity, were the Angel not so far removed from any emotional understanding.

"We must hurry." With that, Castiel pulled Dean behind him into a deserted corridor. Nobody was alerted by Alistair's cries because they simply joined the cacophony of tortured screams echoing around them.

"We're just gonna leave that son of a bitch alive in there? And by the way, I ain't prancing around Hell wearing nothing but blood-" Dean was cut off by a tan trench coat being shoved in his face. Taking it, he noted that Castiel was wearing a suit. A bit fancy for Hell, but what did he know.

Putting the Angel's coat on, Dean took in his surroundings with a trained eye, clutching the knife in his right hand. The Angel seemed to be adamant about leaving the demon in pieces yet breathing, and Dean begrudgingly followed his companion along the corridor.

Looking behind then in front of them, Dean realized that the immediate area surrounding them was better lit than anywhere else. But the light moved with them as they walked, so he could only come to the conclusion that Castiel was the source of that light.

They hurried along the hall, the sound of Dean's bare feet lightly padding along joining the intermittent screams. As they rounded a corner, a single demon nearly collided with them. Before he knew it, Castiel had already stabbed it with his blade.

Dean was impressed by those reflexes, but make sure to keep his face a mask of badass. Job well done, moving on.

After a while, Dean was able to make out a sound that didn't seem to fit with his surroundings: something akin to whistling wind and the sound of tearing fabric.

Suddenly a hand caused him to stop, and he looked at the Angel expectantly.

"When I say 'Run,' you hold onto me and do not let go. Do you understand?" Castiel's eyes glowed in the dark. Dean merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Ready or not, Castiel took Dean's hand in his, glanced around the corner, and called "Run!" before doing just that, pulling the Hunter along behind him.


End file.
